


Scrimshaw and Other Lost Arts

by philomel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one part craft, one part art, and another part magic.</p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">Set vaguely during S2, with only mild spoilers for that season.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrimshaw and Other Lost Arts

When John looks back on this, the fact that will stand out clearest, scream at him loudest and longest, is how greatly he misunderstood, well, everything.

Not _everything_ everything. 

He grasped the concept of the planetary orbits even where Sherlock did not. He's retained his basic maths, can thank his strict 7th year teacher for remembering how to diagram a sentence (everyday-useful as that is). He could fill in an unmarked anatomy chart without a single pause, possibly without a single misspelling, dodgy penmanship notwithstanding. 

But for all the logic Sherlock applies to his cases, logic tends to stick less to Sherlock himself.

There are things John works out rather quickly. When to leave the flat, for example. But then, Sherlock typically tells him that much. He learns immediately not to trust a single container in the refrigerator regardless (or especially because) of its label. It took a very short time for John to comprehend the necessity of locking his bedroom door, sometimes even the bathroom door. But Sherlock knows how to pick locks and will barge in on John even while he's in the middle of a piss to rattle off a long string of details about Mr. Coxton's ineptitude at badminton and therefore his incapability of poisoning his partner at the firm. John's bladder has gotten the hang, so to speak, of such interruptions. Harder to grasp (and, really, John's internal monologue needs to work on its phrasing) is how Sherlock will walk in on John during a wank, completely oblivious to John's flushed face and rapid breathing and suddenly stilled hand beneath the sheets (and how exactly does the Great Noticer not notice what's right in front of him?) to tell him he must come at once (and, really, Sherlock, _really_ ) because there's a severed ear in an empty bean tin on the platform at Islington with their names on it.

And all John can think to say is, "Literally?"

And Sherlock says, “Yes,” in a way that John can't read as sarcastic or genuine. But that mystery is enough to get him out of bed and on to his feet with a bit of a wobble from the lack of blood in his head, which, thankfully, Sherlock, does not see, or even notice, as he's already out the door and dashing down the stairs to hail a cab.

So the logic of locks fails as well.

Logic, John now understands, is utterly overrated. With the exception of Sherlock's application of it, logic's appeal is rudimentary at best. There's the ordinary logic of brushing your teeth to prevent decay — boring bits to be tucked away in the back of one's head. Then there's the logic of Sherlock's deductions — beautiful as sculpture being carved down and smoothed off to reveal something previously unseen, to birth beauty out of crude shapes, refine chunks of detritus. This logic is art.

John looks at Sherlock's hands and wonders why he didn't see it before. Long, tapered, graceful fingers that can pull molecules from the air, string them together with swiftness and ease, until they leave a trail, sparkling in the light in a way only Sherlock can see and sometimes — if he's lucky — John occasionally catches, on a long, looping lead tethering the murderer to his telltale giveaway.

It's one part craft, one part art, and another part magic. John stays to get a glimpse of that trick behind the scenes, that sleight of hand tipped toward him, when Sherlock shares what he's sussed out. He stays because Sherlock only shares it with him.

Sure, he'll rattle off his deductions in front of anyone. He'll fan out his hands like a peacock flashes its feathers, show it all. But most people get tangled in the words, tongues tied up in the presentation, mouths agape and open to the assault. John's been on that side of things. Now that he's on the other side, he's become entangled in a completely different way. 

Sherlock's obsessiveness is contagious, his addiction infectious. John yearns for each new game, longs for the splash of red that starts each new masterpiece: not the killer's but Sherlock's. The one that, ideally, ends in less blood, but moves forward in a smear of color, running through the streets of London, where grey washes into blue neon which bleeds into yellow lamplight which swirls into St. Elmo's green along the foggy banks of the Thames which diminishes under the drench of pink and orange as the sun rises, brushing black off the rooftops. 

John never knew that he would not get sick of death, not sicken of the screams, the cries for help. 

There's no more meaning here than in Afghanistan. But here, there's an answer. He faithfully believes that he and Sherlock can outrun the explosions, defuse the bombs, where bombs are people or actual bombs or both. They can't save everyone, but they've saved enough. So John, who never truly believed in anything before, believes now. 

He believes in Sherlock Holmes.

And, _huh_. Of all the people to put one's faith in. 

No, he didn't see that coming, any more than he saw the discarding of his cane or the reveal of Mycroft as Sherlock's brother or the hidden figure that pulled him off the street and into a parka insulated with explosives. He didn't expect to shut down again, like he had when death came calling before, tuning it all out, turning the noise down until he was no longer John Watson but a fixed piece of flesh in the static form of prey waiting for the predator to get it over with, just get it over with. 

Then Sherlock was there, and suddenly John was too, panting by the side of the pool, wanting nothing but life, wanting it with his entire core, fighting out for it as he fought for each breath. And if life were to only last a few more seconds, then, yes. Yes, he nodded, when Sherlock looked at him, watched the barrel of the gun line up with the parka on the floor.

Yes, he would take whatever seconds or years he had left, whatever the case may be, so long as it kept going like this, with Sherlock bursting through closed doors, dragging him out of nightmares and into daylight, or night shot through with fluorescence, or even pitch darkness. Because even in such horror scenes, John feels alive. Not useless, not a burden, not a rabbit frozen and waiting for death. But alive.

This cold man with his corpse-white skin and vein-colored clothes of blue and purple warms John.

This warmth, John never anticipated. Hands on his shoulders, steadying him, saving him. Palms on his face, feverish on his cheeks, checking him over. Breath hot on his ear as he leans in close and says, "Run. _Now_."

And John chases that warmth like Sherlock chases every clue. Wanting more, needing more, he follows where a rational man would not.

Down the asphalt, the concrete, the slick cobblestones, over the tarred roofs, past the vertigo that swings low in his belly as he stops and starts up again to leap over the edge and onto another building, he takes his place behind Sherlock, catches up beside him, climbs into cabs to stumble up the stairs of 221B and onto their couch, where they'll stay up for hours, despite the case being solved, because the adrenaline prevents them from sleeping, though their bodies collapse together, timed perfectly, into the cushions beneath them.

It is then that Sherlock's sense of personal space disintegrates most. His long limbs stretch out to rest on the coffee table or John's legs, whatever has the nearest proximity. 

John doesn't care. For all he indicates that he does, he really doesn't. "Confirmed bachelor" John Watson, who supposedly "loves" Sherlock Holmes enough to avoid punching his nose or mouth, honestly does not mind taking Sherlock's hand when he is told to, truthfully is not bothered that Sherlock uses him as an ottoman, cares not a penny for the fact that their combined weight makes him dip down with the compressed cushion, bringing his cheek in contact with the space under Sherlock's raised arm.

He doesn't understand precisely how much he doesn't mind until Sherlock unlaces his fingers from behind his own head and lets one hand fall against the nape of John's neck. 

Sherlock toys with the collar tucked into John's jumper until it comes loose, the pad of his thumb between the fabric and John's skin, his nail smooth, a hangnail scratching slightly in contrast. With his face pressed into Sherlock's underarm, John can smell the sweat on him, cancelling out whatever deodorant he might have put on that day, if he'd put on any at all. John hasn't washed his hair in days, wonders if Sherlock knows just by scent the exact number of days, wonders if he can separate and compartmentalize the smells of sweat and lingering shampoo (what brand, too, of course), of nicotine from the smokers they'd passed on the street (brands here, too, and low-tar and menthol and clove and the like), of the Chinese market, and the alley beside the bakery where they'd crouched between the door to the kitchen and the skip, comforting smell of yeast intermingling with the sharp rot of garbage.

The thrill of it all still zings through John's veins, rings in his ears, and he wants to say, "That was amazing." Because it was. He wants to qualify it with superlatives, quantify it on a scale of better-than-a-night-at-the-cinema to jesus-we-almost-died, with the latter being the ultimate compliment, because that's what John Watson's life has become. But that's not all.

There's also this.

John smelling Sherlock's skin, ripe through his rumpled clothes. Fingers on his neck, twiddling in a way that means Sherlock is probably miles away. But John won't look up to confirm it. In front of him, there's a button come undone, right where Sherlock's sternum ends. John can see the concave of his chest, pale counterpoint to the dark gaping cloth on either side. A hair catches the light, and John wants to touch. He wants this now as badly as he wants to solve each puzzle presented to him and Sherlock. He craves it more — the way Sherlock jitters, aching and anxious for a new problem to pull apart to find its final solution. John wants to press his finger to that patch of skin and know it's just as warm as the fingers at his neck, just as warm as the crook of Sherlock's arm, just as warm as the breath rustling the hairs on John's head with each intake, making him shiver with the coolness that follows each outtake.

He gives in. He always gives in with Sherlock. 

He touches two fingers to the exposed part of Sherlock's chest and feels his heart beating too fast, jumping back at him, his own cardiac rhythm quickening (maybe quickened already).

Sherlock stops breathing for a second. And, in that second, everything flashes before John's eyes: that night and all the others, all the sleepless ones, running, running, running after Sherlock to keep up.

Running, to end up here.

This, he doesn't want to figure out. He doesn't want to understand. If he looks up and sees Sherlock's face, a bit more of it will start to chip away, revealing. That's Sherlock's art, not his. Not John Watson's place, but to follow and document the deductions. 

He wants this to stay just like it is right now. The unknowable parts of Sherlock to stay unknown.

It's a mystery he never wants solved. Because then, what's left after that?

But then Sherlock's hand hovers over John's, fingertips dancing over John's knuckles like they're strings on a violin and he's just warming up, testing the steel. And something wound tight inside John unravels, soundless, but so loud inside his head.

Sherlock presses down. 

A button from his shirt digs into the heel of John's hand, the hem of his shirt tickles at John's wrist. But Sherlock's skin beneath him is warm, Sherlock's palm over him warmer still and slightly damp. And John's never known Sherlock to be nervous. 

He dares a glance up.

Sherlock's eyes are closed. It's the most open John's ever seen him. Exposed. He understands this, a little. It's not the same as being walked in on. It's the same as what he's feeling now. Peeled apart, maybe, put back together. 

This is it, John thinks, and follows the lines of Sherlock's mouth. 

The cracks in his lips. The scar at the corner. Everything, _everything_ revealed beneath John’s tongue.

Around, and inside, it's warm. There's no way John could ever get enough. And Sherlock follows. A new puzzle. 

John pieces them together, feeling scattered. And not caring. Only caring that there's more warmth beneath the cold surface of Sherlock Holmes, and it's endless, limitless, mapless, and only for his hands to uncover. His hands alongside Sherlock's, so fine of bone yet so strong. So sharp in feature yet so soft to touch. So many colors in his eyes and so many more when he touches back. 

It's no game, he hopes; it's more thrilling than any chase or crime in progress.

If it's a case, he wishes it to never be solved.

He opens Sherlock and finds nothing he understood before. But before isn't a place to which he wants to return. This is better. This is inevitable, etched into his skin. Indenting Sherlock's, he marks him with this nameless thing that only he can see. Only they can see. In the dark, or in the daylight, where no one else needs to know.

There is no space left between them, and no reason for it.


End file.
